I laid my son to rest years ago and spent every day since trying to fill the silence he left behind. Then I came across a photo of a man who looked exactly like the boy I buried.
I buried my son, Barry, 15 years ago. That kind of thing changes a man.
My son was 11 when he died. He had sandy-blond hair and a shy smile. I still remember him as if it happened the day before.
Barry’s disappearance tore my world apart.
That kind of thing changes a man.
The search lasted for months. Police boats dragged the quarry lake. Volunteers walked miles of forest trails. My wife, Karen, and I spent countless nights staring at the phone, hoping it would ring.
It never did.
Eventually, the sheriff sat us down. Without a body, there wasn’t much they could do. The case would stay open, but after so long, they had to assume our son had died.
Karen cried until she couldn’t breathe.
I just sat there.
The search lasted for months.
Life continued.
Karen and I never had other children. We talked about it, but I think we believed losing another child would destroy us completely.
So instead, I buried myself in work.
I owned a small hardware and supply store just outside of town. Keeping it running gave me something to focus on, which made the days move forward.
Fifteen years passed in that way.
I buried myself in work.
Then, one afternoon, something strange happened.
I’d been sitting in the office flipping through resumes for a janitor position. The store needed someone dependable.
Most of the applications looked the same: short job histories, a few references, nothing memorable.
Then I reached one that made me stop.
The name at the top read “Barry.”
I told myself it was just a coincidence. “Barry” was a common name.
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